The Magical Garden of Life—you never know what you’ll reap
Abbe’s Ruminations July 2025
I no longer own a plot of land to seed a soil-based garden. I miss my fresh lettuce, those tender sweet peas as they form on traveling vines. Or the beets that mature below the ground. Instead, I have a fertile neighborhood, that surprises me with abundance in odd ways.
Each day I set out on a walk-about, my version of seeding my imagination, my joy, and connecting. Part of my walk is along the town’s main street. Restaurants since Covid, spill out onto the sidewalks. Customers chatter in the sun, eating pizza, tortillas, or sipping wine. Kids run along beside parents, who strain with the puppies and strollers. Today a three-year-old held a stick as a wand casting a spell on her aunt. I heard say “Freeze” as I passed by. I froze with one leg forward and my hands up in the air. The little girl giggled and giggled. Her mom said, “Tell the lady to unfreeze.” Instead, she repeated freeze over-and-over. I froze at least ten times. They were in stitches with my antics and I’m sure the little girl believed in her magical powers.
Perhaps I have it all wrong. Maybe, my daily jaunts are magical. I’ve noticed a house up a hill and can never discover the entrance. As I come past the upward curve of the hill where the one-way road levels out, I spot a woman I’d never seen before. She’s seated on the ground weeding a garden bed, a small pail by her side. I notice her head scarf, a cotton swirl that hides new curls. A cancer apparition that manifests with her smile. She’s here to weed along the driveway of a house a hundred years old. She’s worried about what is left to do. I look at her pail and remark, “Look at all you have done.” Later, I ask about the driveway entrance, she tells me that she’ll have an answer the next time I see her.
I have never seen her since that time. It’s as if she was never there because the laned driveway is free of weeds and the grass is well manicured. Something impossible for her to do. Instead, I come across another person who pops out on top of a pass-through garage—an old-fashioned one, made for long-ago times of small cars, or buggies. The steps from the garage lead up to a house being refurbished. I’ve never seen this man before. He tells me he has been sick and now is ready to continue working. We talk about countries around the world, cultures, wars, and reconciliation. He mentions that the house faced a horrible fire in the 1990s. All those inside perished. It once was painted the color pink. He chose mellow green for a new start. I wonder if I walk past this house again, if it too will dissolve back into the trees? Vanish from my scope of awareness.
If all these moments slip away, the magic of our connection remains. I’ve reaped the mature histories behind the scenes and felt the green of new growth.
I’d love to hear your discoveries and your thoughts. You can contact me at http://www.abberolnick.com
